


seemed so wrong, but now it seems so right

by janie_tangerine



Series: charity commissions 2018 [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Auctions, BAMF Jaime Lannister, Bad Decisions, Bottom Jon Snow, CANON tbh, Collars, Consensual Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Forced Prostitution, I Don't Even Know, Illegal Activities, Jaime Lannister Is Pretty Much Done, Jon Snow Knows Nothing, Jon is also crushing so hard on him it's not even funny, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Objectification, Oral Sex, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, R Plus L Equals J, Rimming, Undercover Missions, broke millennials will do fairly stupid things, guys the premise is fairly dubcon but the actual sex is totally consensual don't worry, like TRYING TO SELL THEIR V-CARD, the author tried, top jaime, virginity auctions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 16:03:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15952766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: Why the fuck would Ned Stark’s kid volunteer to sell off his fucking virginity, that’s something Jaime would honestly like to know.… Also, damn, now that he looks back at it, it’s not just that he’s nervous.He has the face of someone who’s wholly fucking regretting being here.Or: in which Jon makes extremely bad life decisions. Good for him that he pretty much crashes Jaime's undercover op.





	seemed so wrong, but now it seems so right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [half_life](https://archiveofourown.org/users/half_life/gifts).



> OKAY SO, this was the second-to-last commission from last April I had to go - the prompt was along the lines of 'Jon is in dire need of money, ends up selling it at some shady virginity auction, Jaime is there for work reasons [he's a cop] and gets him out of it without expecting anything in return' plus the two of them actually having *consensual* sex later. I TRIED. This whole thing is totally NEW SANDBOX MATERIAL because it's not a ship I ever thought I'd end up doing non-gen and it's usually not the kind of set-up I go for but hey never say I can't try to get out of the comfort zone ;) half_life I hope it's up along your alley and thank you <333
> 
> Also, IF IT WASN'T CLEAR FROM THE TAGS: this thing includes illegal prostitution rings and so on so while the actual sex is absolutely 100% consensual the circumstances are what they are and there's various mentions of Horrible Things Done By People At The Auction so thread lightly. Like, the tags are there for a reason pls heed them thank you very much.
> 
> In conclusion: the title is from The Four Seasons pls don't judge me the imagination was running low, I own absolutely nothing here, PLEASE don't try to do at home anything that Jon does in this fic and endless thanks to tumblr user robb-greyjoy for proofreading this thanks u were a lifesaver <3 aaand I'll saunter back downwards now thank you all. /o\

1.

 

_Maybe if I stare at it a little bit longer, that number is going to change_.

Jon blinks his eyes, feeling them burn, and of course they would, since he’s been staring at the damned page displaying the state of his bank account for the last… shit, fifteen minutes.

He rubs his fingers over them once, twice, then looks at the website again.

Well, no point in lying to himself that much longer: no, the number is not going to change, and no, while not _in the red_ yet he most definitely will be after he has to pay his next rent and his share of the electricity bill if things don’t change, and it’s _not good_.

He groans and slams his old laptop closed — he considers selling it for a moment, except that he’d make maybe fifty quid out of it given that it still runs on Windows XP and while it’s pristinely kept, he doubts it’s good money on the used market and then he couldn’t send CVs online anymore. Not worth it.

_Why did I ever think it was a good idea to move out two years ago_ , he thinks as he pushes his chair back. Maybe if he _hadn’t_ moved out, he wouldn’t be in this fucking mess, but he couldn’t have fucking _known_ , could he?

Rewind: it’s not that he moved out at seventeen after finishing school a year earlier because he _had_ to, but — right. Thing is, he had been living with his uncle who took him in when he was seven, two years after both his parents died in a dumb car accident (after being young and stupid and having kids way earlier than they should have had) and left him with his paternal grandfather. Said grandfather was an asshole of the worst kind (and he was a Tory politician, nothing surprising) and he still has fucking nightmares about those two years, and he was never happier than when the arse ended up in jail because Jaime Lannister, the youngest new recruit in his police escort, had found out he was corrupted to the gills and had the guts to press charges and bring him to court. So far so good, but his uncle had _five_ other kids, and thanks to the fucking recession his wife had lost her job and he got a salary cut, so since Jon _could_ work at that point… he had just wanted to move out. It’s not that they forced him to or anything, but he just felt like shit being the _sixth_ extra person in the house and while he doesn’t _hate_ Cat or anything they never had much of a relationship in that sense. So when Pyp and Grenn told him their roommate had moved and they were looking for a third, he was quick to say he’d rent the third room in the house they had been sharing for the last year or so.

He had some savings from his bloody parents left, and after that he had found a waiting job that was hardly great, but it paid the damned rent.

Everything had gone fine for two years.

And _then_ in the span of two weeks the restaurant he worked at closed because of the fucking recession _and_ his uncle (or father, at that point), who probably shouldn’t have followed his life calling and become a cop, died during a botched operation that wouldn’t have ended with two dead officers and five wounded civilians if some asshole hadn’t started shooting when there was no need, in the span of one bloody week.

And now he’s sitting on the chair in his small room still wearing the funeral clothes — the only suit he owns — checking the state of his finances and realizing that he’s completely, utterly, truly fucked.

Thing is: his job paid _badly_ , so he more or less never came close to being in the red but he never made enough money to _save_ anything out of his salary after paying his share of both rent and bills. His biological parents’s money is long gone and never mind that he wouldn’t ask Cat on principle, as far as he knows since she was laid off from her secretary job, she’s made her share of money to contribute to house expenses with online translations and so on and good thing they owned that house or they’d be in way deeper shit, too. And as stated, his uncle’s salary had been cut just when he moved out. Robb most likely is the only one contributing serious money to the household and Sansa is still finishing school, so — he wouldn’t ask them for money or to move back in anyway because he knows they don’t have any to spare in the first place. And his friends at least haven’t been laid off but none of them swims in money — he’s sure they’d let him skip a month of rent but they can’t afford more than that.

And the rent is due _next week_ , fuck’s sake, so even if he started sending applications for whichever menial job he could manage while not having taken college classes (which means already going for lower wages) he still wouldn’t make it in time for that damned payment.

Well, _fuck_.

Then again, his father — his _uncle_ , whatever you make it to be — hasn’t raised him to be a quitter, he thinks, and so he stands up, changes into some old sweatpants he only uses around the house and the first clean t-shirt he finds rummaging through his wardrobe and opens the laptop again. It’s eight PM.

He can start sending out CVs, hoping that someone calls him back and if they do he can just tell Pyp and Grenn he’ll pay them back for next month’s rent as soon as he has a paycheck, _possibly_ higher than his latest, even if he has doubts about it.

Shit, maybe he _should_ have tried applying for uni, after all, but what’s done is done and he needs to pay his bills _now_ , no point in wasting time over spilled milk.

——

Three days later, he’s sitting in the living room, staring at his e-mail the same way he had been staring at the bank account page earlier.

He sighs, moves his hand over the mouse, then over _that_ button —

“Jon, you refreshed that page _two minutes_ ago,” Pyp says from the other side of the room, where he’s putting cutlery on the table. “And your phone isn’t on silent. If you got an email, it would ring.”

He wants to reply, then realizes he’s got nothing. He closes the laptop, shaking his head. “Fuck. Fair, _fair_ , I’m just — going to look at it after dinner. Let me guess, we only have eggs and bacon, don’t we?”

“If no one bought groceries in the last two days, yes.”

“I’’ll see what I can do,” he says, stepping into the kitchen. Maybe putting together an omelette — as in, the only thing he can possibly do with the sad contents of their fridge — will clear his head after spending the last three days sending in CVs without receiving _one_ single answer.

“Hey,” Pyp says as he rummages through the pans, “you _know_ that if you can’t pay rent this month Grenn and I can cover, it’s not a problem.”

“Thanks,” Jon says, “but — I really would prefer you didn’t have to. Still, if no one’s answering —”

“Jon, that place you worked at sucked and if the economy hadn’t killed it, some health board inspector would have. And we knew that. You haven’t missed one bill since you moved in, we’ve been friends for _years_ , I think we can handle it for one month. Don’t, all right?”

“… Right. Thanks,” he says, breaking the eggs, hoping that he sounds as collected as he wants to sound. The last thing he needs is losing his shit over the damned rent and if for once he accepts money, he supposes it can’t be too bad.

Still, he _hates_ the idea, he doesn’t like to owe people money, and fuck, he just hates this whole stupid situation.

He needs to find something that pays, damn it.

——

He’s turning the omelette over when Grenn comes back home, a few minutes later.

“Shit, guys,” he says, dropping his backpack at the entrance, “you don’t wanna know what happened at work today.”

“You can’t lead in with _that_ and then take it back,” Pyp shouts back, and Jon would really like to know, since Grenn works for a construction company that builds luxury buildings (which is why he’s the only one bringing in a _decent_ paycheck even if he has technically the least qualified job out of the three of them, pardon, two) and usually nothing exciting happens on _his_ shifts.

“Well,” he says, “you know Mr. Frey?”

“Who, that creeper with a bunch of wives and I don’t know how many kids you’re building that hotel for?”

“We _were_ ,” Grenn says, “because today they arrested him.”

“You’re shitting me,” Pyp replies. “For _what_?”

“Apparently the police caught him at this clandestine virginity auction thing.”

“A virginity _what_?” Pyp almost screams.

“Virginity auction. It’s like, some kinda ring that the police are trying to dismantle I think, that’s what they were saying at work. Seems like yesterday they barged into one of the auctions and our friend Mr. Frey was there and had just bid some twenty five thousand quid on this seventeen year-old girl who definitely wasn’t there of her own decision. Seems like she could barely speak English, bloody hell. So, he’s been arrested and he’s probably not getting out anytime soon, so no hotel. Good riddance, if you ask me.”

Right. Because they get paid in advance, so even if the job’s not finished for _these_ circumstances, they wouldn’t have to give the money back.

“Christ,” Pyp says, “that’s revolting. Wasn’t he, like, eighty-something?”

“Yeah, eighty-five or some shit.”

“And he pays money for _underage girls_ who haven’t had anyone yet? Fuck, that’s sick.”

“Don’t you tell me,” Grenn says, shaking his head. “Well, I’ve got the day off tomorrow, guess I’ll go buy groceries since I can smell that we’re at the end of our rope.”

“Hey, I can cook a perfectly good omelette,” Jon finally says, “and good riddance indeed.”

That Frey guy was some kind of billionaire at his seventh wife and… had some thirty kids and he doesn’t even know how many nephews, he remembers from what Grenn told them. Honestly, that’s just disgusting and good for everyone involved that he’s locked up.

He turns off the stove and stops thinking about it — that’s the last thing he wants on his mind _while he eats_.

——

Later, he’s tossing and turning on the bed and _he can’t fucking sleep_.

He hates not being able to pay his share, he hates that Pyp even had to ask him, he hates that he thinks he’s lost count of all the e-mails he has sent to apply for _anything_ he was qualified for in the area his public transport subscription works for, because if he had to pay to reach any area behind Zone 2 then he’d end up wasting half of his paycheck on the metro, and that he’s gotten _one_ answer while they were eating, and it was a rejection.

Also, it’s a Friday, which means that even if he spends the week-end walking through every restaurant or pub in the area handing out his applications, he _won’t_ get a reply before next week, which means he already won’t have a full paycheck when the next rent is due —

_Shit_.

He needs some way to make cash fast, possibly not just enough to scrape by, but it’s not like he has family heirlooms to sell. He has _nothing_ to sell, for —

Suddenly, he remembers what Grenn had said.

_Mr. Frey was there and had just bid some twenty five thousand quid on this seventeen year-old girl._

For a moment he shakes his head, wondering what the fuck is wrong with him, but —

_But_ —

Twenty-five quid is a _lot_ of money, and — fine, Jon certainly doesn’t boast around that at the ripe age of just-turned-nineteen he never has even fooled around with a girl because in high school no girls looked at _him_ and he honestly had no time for them either, and while he might have been looking at both guys and girls none of them actually looked _back_ and he always was shit at socializing, that’s why he lives with his only two friends.

But fact is: since his socialization skills are shit, he’s never actually had sex with anyone _and_ he actually — _technically_ — could…

Fuck.

_I can’t fucking believe that I’m thinking of auctioning off my fucking virginity_ , except that… if there’s a _market_ for it…

Twenty-five thousand quid.

Fuck’s sake, while he doubts he’s a catch in _that_ sense, if this shit is illegal and if he finds a way to do it so that _he_ gets a share of the money… even if it’s even half of that, or a third, it still would be enough to make sure he doesn’t have to worry about the rent nor the bills for a few months and maybe he could spend that time looking for a better job that pays decently, and so what if most likely he’d lose his v-card to some creeper with money to waste who gets off on it? It’s not like he ever gave a damn about the v-card whatsoever and if it pays the bills —

He seriously can’t believe he’s considering it. But _even_ if he doesn’t raise that much money, honestly, even five thousand would put him in a way better position than the one he is right now. At least he could breathe for a few months.

He sits up, grabs his laptop, turns it on, switches to incognito navigation and types quickly into the search bar.

The moment he sees some people put it up for auction on _Ebay_ he knows _that_ is never happening — fuck, the last thing he needs is people he knows finding out.

No. If he wants to do this, he can’t do it _in the open_.

Fuck.

Fuck, he was raised by a cop, he thinks as he keeps on typing even if he wishes he could stop, and he’s here googling _how the hell do you find people who’ll sell your fucking v-card for you_ , and he probably should _not_ look up that Walder Frey person and see what the news have to say about _where_ he was when the auction was going on. His father would be _fucking disappointed_ , but — well. He’s dead.

And still.

_Twenty-five thousand quid._

He knows that he’s _not_ going to get that out of his mind, so —

So fuck it. Since he apparently decided he’s doing this, he’ll just have to try and find the best way to manage _without_ getting royally fucked or not getting his share.

Then again, he _was_ raised by a cop. He hopes he remembers enough to do this… well. Not _properly_ but at least safely enough that he can just go through with it and be done.

He hopes that he can put what he learned into practice and takes a deep breath as he sits up straighter on the bed.

He already knows he’s _not_ going to sleep tonight.

 

2.

 

“Jaime, you about to go in?”

_Shit_ , Jaime thinks, _the reception’s shot to hell_. Brienne’s voice came out of his burner cellphone so distorted he can barely recognize it.

“Almost,” he says, not getting out of his car. _Yet_. “I was checking in now since I doubt I’ll be able to the moment I walk in there.”

“I figured. Anyway, everything clear on this side.”

“You can see out of that camera?”

“Well enough that it would be admissible footage in court. Remember, you’re not supposed to _act_ unless it might bring us further proof.”

“Tarth, I’ve been doing this job for years, I _know_.”

“Yes, and when we caught that small fish who had been selling out that girl Pia who came to _you_ for help, you were this close to pound him into a pulp in the interrogation room. I was there. Honestly, we need the proof for _this_ one auction and then we have enough to nail them next time, so — don’t do anything stupid that might blow your cover, all right?”

“All right,” he says, “all right, I swear I won’t let my _feelings_ about creepy assholes who sell off people’s fucking virginity in illegal auctions get the better of me. Can I go now?”

“Yeah, you can. If you need authorizations to do anything _text_ from the bathroom or something. I’m on to the footage, so whenever you’re ready.”

She closes the call and Jaime hides the burner in a very discreet inner pocket in his immaculate suit jacket. Shit, the last time he wore this was at the last family Christmas party he attended — the one that had ended with Cersei’s wine all over it, and that wasn’t even the worst of it. Still, the dry cleaner did a bang-up job — it’s spotless clean.

_Right_.

He parks his car (that he borrowed from his aunt, but his father wouldn’t have lent him one of the _family vehicles_ and especially not for this kind of thing, not when he still can’t make peace with the fact that Jaime would rather arrest criminals than worrying about the family company), produces the invitation that took _three_ fucking months to obtain and walks toward the villa’s door.

A villa in the middle of the countryside. How _decadent_. Then again, after the other, _more_ illegal branch of the organization was cut off a few weeks ago by the other unit set on dismantling _this_ particular ring of depravity, they probably figured that decadent villa was better than some seedy basement in the outskirts of the city. On top of that, they’re basically running some five different fetish brothels but the one they nailed was only dealing in _totally_ illegal terms, the others have… some semblance of legality to their existence.

He just hopes that no one recognizes him and his cover gets blown, but he’s fairly certain it won’t be the case — all the people involved at the head of this specific criminal organization aren’t _locals_ and they weren’t around when the trial against Aerys went down, and he’s taken _extra_ care to not be seen around most of his family since then so to keep out of tabloids. Also, it’s been fifteen years and sure as hell at thirty-three he doesn’t look the same as he did at eighteen, so the only thing that might blow his cover would have been his surname. But since he’s using a cover identity, that shouldn’t be too much of a hassle. He also wishes _he_ hadn’t been the one picked for undercover work — Brienne was right, he tends to _care_ too much — but on the other hand, he’s the _only_ one in the entire precinct whose bank account could handle a counter-check by these assholes.

Because _of course_ they check if any potential buyer actually has the money to spend, and you have to come with _cash_ ready for use or anticipating the whole sum, which Jaime is keeping in his neat, burgundy leather briefcase slung over his shoulder.

He can’t believe he has some fifteen pounds in cash inside there for _this_ , but hopefully he will just have to film thanks to the small camera mounted in the pin attached to the small pocket on the left side of his jacket and not spend any of it.

Fair enough.

He knocks. Some bouncer with a gun strapped to his side opens the door.

“And you would be?”

Jaime hands over his invite. “Flint. Daniel Flint,” he says, as he’d say his own name.

The guy nods and hands it back. “Mr. Flint. Please do take the left hallway, someone will check on you before bringing you to the auction.”

“Thanks,” Jaime replies, figuring that behaving like an arse would be an exceedingly bad idea in this case. He doesn’t want to get noticed now, does he? He walks inside the house and takes the left hallway, and then he stops the moment he notices someone is coming his way. He’s absolutely _not_ surprised to see that it’s a woman in her forties, impeccably dressed in a silk pantsuit, who looks like she could have just walked out of a meeting with his father..

“I’m Chataya,” she says with a pleasant enough smile. “And I run the activities here. You would be…?”

“Daniel Flint,” he says, handing over his invitation. “Charmed. And I cannot wait to take advantage of your services.”

“Oh, Mr. Flint. Of course. I’m sure you do. Do come inside one moment.”

He follows her into the nearest door on the left. It’s a small, neat office with a desk. He immediately places his briefcase on it and she opens it, nodding in approval at the crisp, new bills inside it. She grabs a stack, thumbing through it, pleased to see they aren’t false — _of course_ they aren’t.

“Everything checks out,” she says. “A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Flint.”

“Hopefully the pleasure _will be_ mine, then,” he winks, and she laughs, and — yeah, fine enough, they sent _him_ doing undercover work also because he’s the best at engaging people in their entire unit.

“Hopefully,” she grins. “Do follow me.”

He takes back his briefcase and does. They go out of the room, walk until the end of the hallway and then walk downstairs, and then turn, until she reaches a small, discreet door.

“The auction room is behind the door,” she explains, all business. “There are only a few rules to follow, and then we can all be friends.”

“I’m all ears.”

“The bids are going to start in… some twenty minutes, give or take. As you know, this isn’t the… only auction of this kind that we run.”

“I knew that, yes.”

“But this is the most _distinguished_ , so you can be sure all of the… candidates, so to speak, are tested for STDs and never had anyone else.”

Jaime _would_ want to know how they can determine it for sure especially if talking about a guy, but he doesn’t ask — the last thing he needs is for her to second-guess him.

“I wouldn’t expect any less,” he drawls.

“You can either choose a seat or sit at the bar, but once you decide, please stay there as we like to keep track of who sits where.”

“Understandable.”

“There might be some dancing first before the auctions happen. After then, this evening’s candidates will be brought out, one by one, and of course any specific qualities they have will be listed.”

_You sound like you’re talking about cattle, lady, but never mind that_ , he doesn’t say.

“If you wish to bid on one, you only have to raise your hand and name a price. Of course, others might outbid you, but it’s up to you to see how much you’re willing to pay.”

“Fair enough. And if I _like_ someone enough to buy them, how does it work?”

“If you win your bid and the sum is lower or as much as the money you brought over in cash, we can settle the transaction like that.”

_Of course. All cash, so not traceable_.

“If it’s higher, we will take the cash as part of it and then you can use a check or transfer the money directly on our bank account. Of course, the bank account is tied to our main branch in London.”

_The one where they only show burlesque dancing so everything is technically legal_ , he doesn’t say.

“We will tell you what to write in the payment description area. Of course, it would not cause questions should anyone should run a check.”

“That’s acceptable. And after I pay?”

“After then, well, you will be brought to the first floor, where we have rooms specifically for, you see, _consummation_.”

“I see,” Jaime nods. “Where I should hope we would be given total privacy.”

“But of course! That goes without question. The moment the door is closed, it’s only your business what happens inside.”

“That sounds good. Should I sign anything, or —?”

“Of course not. No need for any of that,” she smiles.

_So, I’m not even having to sign a piece of paper saying I’m not going to take_ further _advantage of the poor arse I should buy_ , he thinks. _This keeps on getting shadier and shadier_.

“Got it. Is that all?”

“That’s all. Have fun, Mr. Flint.”

“Oh, I plan to,” Jaime grins, and walks inside the room the moment she opens the door.

_Fuck,_ he thinks, _the moment I’m out of here I’m taking ten scalding hot showers. I feel fucking dirty_.

He notices the sign for the bathroom and immediately goes inside, joking with the waiter that he wants a margarita for when he comes out and that he doesn’t want to miss anything so he’s going to get rid of any worries now.

The waiter laughs.

Jaime walks in, locks the door and grabs the burner. It has one lone band, but there’s still reception. He knows that they can see _everything_ at the station, but he figures the verbal reassurance can’t hurt.

He opens a new text to Brienne’s number. _Don’t forget to take out the trash tomorrow morning_ , he types in, then sends it. It was the agreed code they decided on before in case someone checked his texts, but it’s supposed to mean everything’s going according to plan.

He pockets the phone again, smooths down his jacket and leaves the bathroom.

The waiter from before hands him a margarita, as he had asked.

He nods, then goes to sit at the bar — he wants a better vantage point and he wants to film the faces of as many people in here as possible.

Especially because he wants to see if any of them had a file opened on them in course of the investigation.

He sits back, sips his drink and starts looking.

_Great_ , he thinks as he notices fucking Lyn Corbray, _that one was supposed to be on house arrest, last I checked._ For _molesting children_ playing in the middle school soccer team he coaches, except that since he’s _extremely_ he must have paid someone to shorten that house arrest. Disgusting. And given what was in his file, Jaime highly hopes he doesn’t bid on any underage kid that might pass on that stage or he might really fuck this entire operation up.

Not that things get better, because two rows behind him he sees two people he’s sure were in _someone else’s_ file —

Fuck, _fuck_ , fuck.

Sure he remembered them, because they’re sitting next to bloody _Ramsay Bolton_ , as in, a guy that according to Bronn (who works for the team from SC&O’s sexual offenses unit, but is currently joining them — it’s an operation involving some three departments at this point) they’ve been trying to nail for _months_ and who according to him is behind a worrying number of prostitutes from a few specific brothels who ended up in a hospital with amputated fingers, dog bites in places where no one should ever find any and permanent knife scars (with a couple dying of complications for how _bad_ they were), but his father always managed to pay off either the judge or whichever cop ran into the scene first in order to keep him out of that shit and given how he and his friends (who also were listed in that file) are grinning, he has a feeling that whoever they bid on will regret soundly having gone for it, _if_ they win it.

Shit.

He takes a better look at the room.

_Even better, now we have the couple of rich old creepers_. He can’t remember the names but the surnames were _definitely_ Pycelle and Qyburn — no precedents or anything of the kind, but both were apparently regulars in Pia’s brothel and she didn’t have many good things to tell about them, even if according to her _old creepy men who want to feel young are hardly the worst_.

Then there’s a Gregor Clegane who has a file because he _narrowly_ missed going to jail for having burned his twelve year-old brother’s face on a fucking stove, but he was still a minor so he got off light, and his file has _nothing_ good to say about his time in prison. He’s been out for some years and he’s laid low, but Jaime doesn’t like him being here, either.

And then there’s those four creeps who have an entire open file on their endeavors because Bronn’s been keeping an eye on them since some older investigation in which apparently they were involved in some illegal other ring that still sold off young girls to creepers who’d be better off not buying Viagra anymore, but weren’t arrested hoping they’d lead to bigger fish. What were the names — one was definitely Rorge, though Jaime’s sure _he_ was also involved in some illegal dog fighting rings, then there was a Vargo Hoat who _definitely_ was involved in human trafficking. The other two — Shagwell _something_ and another one who went by Zollo but _that_ ’s definitely an alias — were involved with him, but from what Jaime remembers of that file, the only place they belong to is prison, possibly in isolation.

Moral of the story: he _really_ hopes that the old, creepy guys he doesn’t recognize from a file are the ones with the largest wallets in this room, or this is going to end up badly.

He sips more of that margarita.

He lies back, hoping that on the other side of the camera they’re seeing the entire stage just as the curtains open and a few girls with a generous cleavage and little clothing to cover it come on stage.

Right.

The _dancing_.

“Can I have another?” He asks the bartender, moving his eyes away from the stage.

Fine, they have nice legs and their clothes show off enough that a guy might be hot and bothered, but _this_ is so not what gets him off. Considering that his compass in that sense has been screwed all ways since he realized that maybe only having been _with your sister_ up until you turned twenty would, he’s not even surprised that burlesque dancing isn’t his thing.

_Cersei, good thing I quit things during the trial_ , he thinks to himself. He doesn’t want to know how he’d have turned out if he _hadn’t_ , considering that it took him fucking therapy to start making sense of it and he’s nowhere near done yet.

Well, not the point now. He’s not here to get hot and bothered. He knocks back some of that margarita and waits for the auctions to start, and hopes, _really_ hopes that he doesn’t have to fight against the instinct of doing something incredibly stupid and therefore ruins the entire operation.

_You just have to film and then the day after tomorrow they’re in jail. You just have to film it. Just keep on telling yourself that_ , he repeats to himself as alcohol burns the back of his throat.

_Don’t fuck it up, Lannister,_ he tells himself all over again.

_Don’t fuck it up._

_——_

It’s probably telling of the level of _wrong_ in the entire situation that he’s spent the last hour thinking _thank fuck_ every time someone stepped on stage and they were clearly women past sixteen — honestly, if it had been underage girls or worse, boys (given that Corbray is in the audience he had been worried sick) he doesn’t know what he’d have done.

But for now — well. It’s apparently only ten people. One was a male university student in search of money for his loans, so Corbray definitely didn’t go for _that_. The other eight were all women, the youngest sixteen and the older twenty-one, and _fine_ , he had shuddered in disgust when one of them went with Pycelle and the other with Qyburn, but at least those two are just… creepy old bastards with a lot more money than Clegane and Hoat plus friends, not _sadists_ or worse, _people with precedents_. And as much as he’s disgusted, at least now he certainly has them on film and they can arrest them later as well, so — he hates that he can’t do anything now, but they do need proof.

Now there’s just one left and then he can just pretend nothing interested him and he can go back to the precinct and discuss what to do next.

“And for our last auction,” the auctioneer says, suddenly grinning, “we have a real find.”

As in, _what he’s pretty much said for anyone else_. The guy _also_ has a file on him since he runs this particular establishment along with Chataya — Illyrio Mopatis sure as hell enjoys his job, it looks like.

Jaime decides he will have a great time seeing the man behind bars.

“Please, do bring him on stage,” he says, and —

Holy _fuck_.

Jaime almost drops his drink at noticing _who_ is coming on said stage.

He blinks once, then twice. Maybe he’s tipsy. Maybe he’s seen wrong.

But no.

Fuck’s sake, _what the hell is Ned Stark’s son doing here_?

Okay, fine, his _nephew_ which actually was Aerys’s grandson and so on, but — there’s no way that’s not _Jon Snow_ , dressed in a pair of leather trousers that definitely show off his very nice ass and very nice legs and how he’s _not_ at all turned on by this entire mess.

As if. He’s only wearing the trousers — for the rest he’s barefoot and shirtless, save for a medium-sized leather collar the same color as those trousers, the silver clasp _right_ over his Adam’s apple, which is frantically going up and down unless Jaime isn’t seeing well, and thank you but he has _excellent eyesight_.

Christ.

For that matter, as _terrible_ as it’s making Jaime feel because fuck’s sake, he has fourteen years on that kid and last time he saw his face it was in the picture Stark had on his desk — in which he was what, fourteen? Fifteen? Anyway, way too young — and he shouldn’t be thinking, _well, fine, he certainly grew up looking good_. Then again, he’s standing there in those trousers that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination — it’s obvious he goes for runs just from the way they hug his legs —, his nice, toned chest (does he shave? Probably) absolutely _naked_ , and that dark collar against pale skin is doing the job it’s supposed to, Jaime thinks. Ah, and that’s not counting how they styled his hair — it’s falling over his shoulders in neat, curly waves, and someone definitely gave his beard a proper trim, but they haven’t used gel or anything of the kind, so it all looks very… natural, he figures.

But that’s not even the damned point. Because never mind what he’s just thought, which only shows that his head is in the gutter and he _really_ should follow Bronn’s advice, get over the horribly codependent relationship he’s had with his thrice-darned bloody sister (and even if it’s been fifteen years he’s still Not Over Most Of Its Bad Consequences) for good and get laid already — the problem is that Jon Snow is there and since it’s _this_ kind of auction he most likely volunteered for it, but he also looks _scared shitless_ as a bunch of people start whistling the moment he stops with his front to them.

Why _the fuck_ would Ned Stark’s kid volunteer to _sell off his fucking virginity_ , that’s something Jaime would honestly like to know.

… Also, _damn_ , now that he looks back at it, it’s not just that he’s nervous.

He has the face of someone who’s _wholly fucking regretting being here_.

Jaime shakes his head and forces himself to listen to the whole tirade — name, age, sad life story, and wait, _is he doing this because he’s in the red and he can’t pay rent,_ shit, how would it even be possible… ah, _right_ , the salary cuts. It hadn’t hit Jaime that much, but then again he has money to fall back on. But the day it was official it was the only time Jaime heard Stark openly swear, and of course he would, if he had to support fucking _seven_ people with it and his wife had been just laid off, too. They’re probably tight for money now, even more so.

The problem is that he’s seeing _every fucking other creeper left in this room_ smile as the guy rattles on about Snow’s financial issues and how _desperate_ he is to pay his rent, find a job and maybe put some money apart for tuition, and so _the more they bid the higher is the share_ , fucking hell.

Yeah, _in theory_ , except that Jaime knows for sure that whoever does it through _this_ organization lures people in promising 70% of the shares but then pays them some forty, _if_ they do. As in: they mostly don’t.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

But then —

“— And maybe you wouldn’t guess just by looking at him,” Mopatis goes on, “but _we_ do thorough screenings here before presenting you anyone, and if you think he has a nice ass just by looking at it _in leather,_ you have no idea of how tight it is up close and without it. A total treat. That no one else had yet!” Well, _shit_ , that was cringe-y. How do these people get hot and bothered listening to that drivel, again?

That’s not the point, though. The point is that Snow is _fucking blushing crimson_ , his throat working so fast under that collar, Jaime is almost sure he’s going to choke himself.

Fuck, fuck and _fuck_ , again.

Given _who_ is left in this room, he can’t even hope some harmless creeper snags him, because all the old creepers with money are gone upstairs. Also, he glances at Bolton and — shit, is he grinning?

Jaime has only worked with Stark a few times even if they _had_ come to respect each other, and Stark had been the person he went to with his proof of the inane amount of illegal shit Aerys was behind when he pressed charges, and while they weren’t close or anything, he’d feel like a complete failure to the man’s memory if he let _his damned kid_ go upstairs with Ramsay Bolton, should he bid and win, especially when Jon has no bloody idea of what he’s doing. Well, Bolton or _anyone else in this room_.

“So,” the auctioneer says, “are we ready to bid?”

Half of the room whistles, the other says _yes_ , a few are leering openly.

Jaime is about to feel fucking sick.

“Well, I’d say we can start at one thousand. I mean, it’s _nothing_ for that piece of ass, but we can’t start low, we have standards!”

“One and a half,” Corbray says immediately, and _fucking hell_ , what? Jaime wasn’t expecting _him_ of everyone to bid, but —

“Two thousand,” one of Bolton’s friends says.

“Three,” fucking Hoat goes.

“All right, three and one —”

“Four and a half,” Corbray goes, and _damn_ , why?

“Seven,” the other friend of Bolton’s says.

Shit, _shit_ , shit. Jaime wouldn’t be surprised if those four were sharing the pot.

“Nine!” That was Gregor Clegane, _even worse_.

Snow looks absolutely terrified at _both_ the auctions coming in so close and so high and the prospect of having to fuck _either_ of the people in front of that stage.

Damn it.

_Damn it_.

Then again —

He glances at his briefcase.

Fucking hell. He was under direct orders to _not_ get involved, but Brienne also said that if _it was to get more proof_ he could. And — hell, if he films an entire transaction —

“Eleven thousand!”

Fuck, _fuck_ , that was Bolton again, and he looks fairly sure he has it in the bag, and Jaime _really can’t just stand by and do nothing_. He should bid. He should just do it and try to put a stop to it without blowing his cover.

He should check in with the others first, except that —

_Fucking hell_ , they can see everything that’s going on right now.

_Brienne, you’ve known me for years, I hope you’ll get why I didn’t send a notice before doing this_ , he thinks.

“Eleven thousand and one, eleven thousand and two —”

“Thirteen hundred,” he says, raising his hand, _calmly_ and trying to not scream.

“Oh, finally _that_ one bidder found someone he liked, huh?” Mopatis jokes. “Very well. Thirteen thousand and one —”

“Fifteen thousand!” Hoat says, raising his hand.

Oh, _fuck that_ , Jaime thinks. He still has one of the credit cards to one of his father’s Cayman Islands accounts that Tyrion gave him for _extreme occasions if he really needed it_ , and at worst he can use _that_ one.

Actually, it’d be almost fun to see his reaction at his money being used like _this_.

“Twenty thousand!” He counter-offers.

“Things are getting heated! Twenty thousand and one —”

“Twenty-five!”

_Is Lyn Corbray not going home without a fuck tonight or what_ , Jaime wants to scream.

“Thirty!”

… Well, _sure as fuck_ Bolton isn’t worried about his father paying for _this,_ too.

Jaime notices Hoat and friends shaking their heads and backing down.

Well, _fuck it_. At least _they_ are out of the run.

“Forty!” He offers.

“Wow, you really do want that sweet piece of ass, right? Well then, forty and one, forty and two —”

“Forty-five!” Bolton presses, but Jaime can hear that he wasn’t _as sure_ as before, and his friends are shaking their heads at him, like, _that’s way more than you can chew_.

He smiles. Good thing his father’s Cayman Islands account has money in the _millions_.

“Forty five and one, forty five and two —”

“Seventy!” He says, and suddenly the entire room falls silent.

He smirks.

Hey, it’s not as if he relishes where he comes from, and he _hates_ that one of the things his father seemed stuck on teaching him and his siblings was to look down on anyone in a room who had money but _less than them_ , but he’s holding himself up in the same exact way he was told he should now, and given that no one is trying to outbid him _now_ , he thinks he managed.

“Well, now _that_ ’s enough for a full bachelor’s, isn’t it? Seventy and one —”

Jaime can see Corbray’s hand shaking. He doesn’t raise it.

“Seventy and two —”

He looks at Bolton, who seems like he’s fucking _raging_ , but doesn’t say a thing nor try to outbid him.

“Seventy and three! Well, seems that Mr. Flint over there is bringing home a prize tonight, congratulations!”

_Fucking hell_. “I only bid when I’m serious,” he smirks, and then his eyes meet Snow’s, and —

Now the kid looks _confused as hell_ because of course he knows who he is, but Jaime shakes his head minutely, thinning his lips and hoping he’s as quick on the uptake as his father. He nods towards the ceiling and Jon nods back minutely, his shoulders sagging in relief.

_Well then_.

“And I can’t wait to cash in my buyings. Where do I pay?” He grins.

“That’s what we like to hear. Marei, bring him upstairs,” Mopatis tells one of the girls standing on the side of the stage. “You can handle the transaction with Chataya and then we’ll bring you to his room.”

“Fair enough. Do you think I can use the bathroom a moment first? You know, I had a few drinks.”

“But of course, Chataya will be ready for you in the room she showed you before.”

“Great. I’ll be there in a minute.”

He doesn’t quite make a run for the bathroom, but when he’s there he immediately locks himself inside the storage closet rather than a stall — at least it’s large-ish, and most of all is on the opposite side of the main door differently from the bathroom stalls.

He takes out the burner and calls Brienne.

“Jaime,” she hisses the moment she takes the call, “I’m not even telling you you shouldn’t have done it.”

“Wait, you’re not?” He exhales in relief.

“Fuck’s sake, the moment we recognized him we all felt sick and sure as hell no one thought he deserved to end up in a room with fucking Lyn Corbray. Or Bolton, out of everyone. Bronn was actually hoping you wouldn’t disappoint him and go for the bid, so — just pay and film everything, Just _please_ turn that off before you walk inside that room because while we _all_ know you wouldn’t do anything sleazy no one needs to see Ned Stark’s kid _without clothes,_ all right?”

“Roger that. You’re getting all the footage, yes?”

“Sure we are.”

“You’re the best. Okay, I’m going. We’ll — I’ll contact you after I’m done.”

“Sure. Stay safe,” she says, and hangs up.

Fine. _Fine_.

He walks out of the closet, thankful that no one else is in, washes his hand and his face, and then heads for Chataya’s office.

——

“So,” she grins, “I see you found a worthy purchase.”

“He seemed like it,” Jaime grins, producing his briefcase. “So, can we do this with a check or can I wire the money?”

“Is that a _safe_ account?” She grins.

“Sure it is,” he drawls. He’s pretty fucking sure it’s the tightest account in the whole fucking Cayman islands.

“Then,” she says, “our computer has a safe line.” She produces a card. “And these are our account’s coordinates. You only need to fill in the deposit information exactly the way it’s written here.”

Jaime wants to laugh when he sees that the payment description is supposed to be a _free donation to a cultural association_.

Cultural association, indeed.

Good thing that Tyrion also gave him the coordinates for that account and not just the credit card. He sits at the laptop, accesses the browser — of _course_ he does it in incognito —, enters the account and immediately clicks on _transfer_ , then places all the coordinates in and an amount of fifty-five thousand pounds to transfer _immediately_.

A moment later, Chataya’s phone rings.

“Congratulations,” she grins, “successfully transferred.”

Jaime nods back, thinking _and two days from now you’ll be in jail_ , before logging out and carefully erasing the history. Better safe than sorry.

Then he closes the laptop and stands up, retrieving his now empty briefcase.

“So,” he says, “are we all done?”

“Sure we are,” she says, extending a hand. “Marei will bring you upstairs where you can cash in your purchases. A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Flint.”

“Likewise,” he grins, shaking her hand, with that exact same smile he practiced in the mirror until he was sure he had it right and which he hasn’t used in _years_ since he finally was free of his father’s fucking fundraisers and company parties, and she doesn’t know he thinks he hopes to see her in jail for the next ten years _at least_ , but she’ll find out soon enough.

Now he has to worry about _what the fuck_ is he going to even do with _Jon Snow_ who’s most likely waiting for him upstairs and worrying how his father’s former sergeant ended up _buying his fucking virginity._

His life is a fucking joke, Jaime decides, and then he follows Marei upstairs.

He’ll cross that fucking bridge when he inevitably gets to it in the next ten minutes.

——

“Here,” Marei says, showing him to a presumably locked door at the end of one of the upstairs hallways. “It’s — just about midnight now. You have until six in the morning, but if you need more time, given your _generous_ donation, I think we can talk about it.”

“Thank you very much, I think six hours will suffice,” he says. “And no one is going to know what happens behind closed doors?”

“Of course not. We take our clients’s privacy _very_ seriously,” she says.

_Sure you do_.

“Very well then. In this case, I think I would like to cash in.”

“But of course. Have a great time! Your guy is _really_ a sweet find.”

Jaime swallows down the vomit that was about to rise up his throat and smiles.

Then he walks inside the room. The first thing he does is immediately closing the door and locking it, then he turns off his camera before anyone back at the station can see whatever’s inside this fucking room.

Then he finally figures he will have to face the kid, once and for all, so he turns, and —

_Jesus_ , he thinks, _this is too ridiculous_.

So: Snow’s currently sitting on the bed, looking like the most confused person in existence, and _fine_ , at least he’s not naked even if he’s still wearing that damned collar and the leather trousers. The rest of the room is… well, it looks like the kind of horribly stuffed bedroom rich Victorians would have had, just with the windows absolutely shut. Of course.

But then there’s a table on the side on which he can see a number of freaking _plugs_ , a couple dildos one of which _way_ too big for someone who hasn’t fucking had sex yet _in theory_ , condoms, _ten_ kinds of flavored lubes, _eggs_ , what the fuck, _why_ would there be eggs in the middle of sex toys, a freaking _riding crop_ and four different kind of rope.

_Surely they take this job seriously_ , he thinks, feeling like he should start laughing hysterically. Instead he goes to grab one of the eggs, realizes that it’s some kind of cover for the dildo to _improve its efficiency,_ just packaged like a damned egg, and slams it back on the table. This is too absurd. And Jon hasn’t said a thing yet, and of course he wouldn’t, because _he knows him_ and they ran into each other more than once when Stark brought him to work, and —

Right.

“Okay,” he says, “let’s put it out of the way _now_ : I’m actually fucking undercover.”

“ _What_?” Jon asks, obviously not having expected _that_.

“Why, did you think I liked to spend my money bidding on snagging people’s virginity? Sorry, kid, I can get laid without paying for it if I want to, _and_ I don’t find anything arousing in taking people’s v-cards. But these people you managed to land yourselves with are _criminals_ and you should be glad you ended up here and not in the ring my friend Bronn’s investigating now, because _that_ side of the organization is way worse. Anyway, I was supposed to infiltrate that auction, film everything and bring it back to the station so we’d have proof to nail them.”

“Wait, you _filmed_ that auction?”

“Jon, _everyone_ at the precinct saw it, it’s wired to their computer.”

Jon’s mortified face tells him everything he needs to know, so he decides to _not_ rub it in.

“ _Anyhow_ , I was there to just lurk and do my job, and then you showed up and — like, I wasn’t about to let a guy who spent years in jail for burning half of his little brother’s face bid on my former boss’s kid. Or one who molests children. Or another who most likely _murdered_ a few girls.”

“Wait, _what_?”

“Yeah, sounds to me like you didn’t have a fucking clue of what you were doing.”

“… I didn’t,” Jon admits, sounding ashamed, “but it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Then would you fucking consider explaining me _why_ on God’s green Earth — if He exists in the first place — _you_ were selling off your v-card for an organization ran by a guy who we hope to nail for sex trafficking and a lot of other things but also for having _sold all of his daughters off to other people when they were fourteen_ and actually had children with half of them? Yeah, well, this entire operation started when one of them came to us for help because she wanted to get out.”

Jon _blanches_.

Jaime should probably not be _that_ much of an arse, but he has a feeling he needs to make sure he gets what the hell he has just gotten himself into.

“So,” he says, “ _what_ is exactly the gosh-darned reason why you’re here?”

Jon sighs, shakes his head, his hand going to the back of his head. Just over the freaking collar.

“Listen, I left home two years ago because in between my — father’s salary cuts, Cat losing her job and only Robb bringing a paycheck in they could hardly afford _me_ being there on top of the rest and I didn’t need to be asked to know. Now my father’s _dead_ and they have one less salary coming in, I just got laid off and I sure as hell can’t go ask Cat for money, my bank account is pretty much almost in the red and after a week of walking through all the damned restaurants in the area _and_ sending online applications and getting nothing… I read about it on the news and since I happen to, like, _have never had sex_ , it seemed… well, not _ideal_ but it would be a lot of cash coming in at once. But they _did_ say it in —”

“Do you think I was paying attention? Please. Er, you know you can ask for loans?”

Jon _laughs_. “Man, which century are you from? My bank won’t even issue me a credit card unless someone with a steady income guarantees I can pay it off if I go in the red, if you have zero qualifications you’re basically cattle and the place I was working at closed, period. And even if you get interviewed it’s not a given you’ll get it. Who the fuck is going to give me a loan? I looked around online and these people passed themselves for one of those escort websites, you know?”

“Yeah,” Jaime thinks. “I know. And?”

“In theory the agreement would have been just posting a picture online and then the bids would have been just on the internet and then they’d have taken a fee from the overall bidding before arranging the meeting, and that was what I signed up for, but then they said that there were higher chances of earning more if we did the auction _in person_ and they made it sound as if it was… less shady than _this_ , pretty much.”

“Right. So you agreed?”

“Listen, as naive as it might sound to _you_ , some of us would like to have _some_ money for security while trying to change our living situation and we don’t want to do when our account’s in the _red_ and we can’t even _go_ in the red because we can’t even borrow the fucking money. Sure I agreed. I showed up here, then they threw us all in the back of the stage after putting us in this damned get-up and that was it.”

“Yeah,” Jaime says, sighing and putting a hand on the kid’s shoulder before he has a nervous breakdown, “and I guess _that_ looked shady enough. Right. How much are you supposed to get out of this deal?”

No point in sweetening up the pill.

“Seventy per cent of the overall bid.”

“Sorry to say, most likely you aren’t getting a thing _or_ if you do you’ll get forty per cent.”

“ _What_?”

He sighs. “It’s how it went for _everyone else_ in this ring. Out of all the people we got out of it, about half of them actually saw that money and it was way less than they had been promised.”

“You’re telling me I could have ended up with — people with _precedents_ , and not even gotten the money?”

He thinks, _should I tell him_. Then he figures he might as well — he wouldn’t want to be lied to, in that position. “Given that some of the girls in the ring that was actually dealing with illegal sex trafficking _died_ , and we actually had proof to link them to this entire shitshow, maybe not getting the money wouldn’t have been that bad in comparison.”

Jon’s skin goes a shade paler.

Then —

“And you were here to — film?”

“We’re arresting all of them in a few days — the footage I got should be enough to hold up in court. Obviously we’re gonna keep it under wraps along with the identities of the people involved in, well, _the auction_.”

“Thank fuck,” Jon sighs. “Damn. How _great_. I don’t get the money, I risked _way_ worse than what I had put into account and I just narrowly missed a bunch of creepers. Guess I get to keep the fucking v-card, what a grand time. And I still am in the fucking red.”

Jaime almost flinches — no one _that_ young should sound so discouraged. Then again what does he know about applying for low-wages jobs? He went straight into the police and you don’t have to send a CV for _that._ And crappy as things have been, at least he’s had a steady paycheck since he enrolled and even when it got cut, it didn’t harm his bank account because all of them have the share of the family money — he has no ground judging what people might do to pay the bills.

“Listen,” he says, “I _get_ that, I mean, I guess I do, but wasn’t really… any other option?”

“And what? If my bank won’t give me a loan I doubt I’d be better off asking in a pawn shop if I don’t want to get fucked over the moment I can’t pay interests, I won’t ask Cat and I certainly can’t ask Robb, and if you recall how things ended with our sadly common acquaintance —”

“Right, _right_ , I get it,” Jaime interrupts him. He’s not gonna discuss Aerys with his damned _grandson_ who hates him same as Jaime does and who had been able to go live with Ned just because he gave up any tie to the Targaryens, _including_ the right to ask for some of that old nobility family money.

“And well, both my friends I live with are in the same boat except that they have slightly less horrible jobs. So, _no_ , Lannister, there wasn’t any other fucking option short of selling porn videos online or outright sex work and getting paid a lot _once_ and then not having to do it again seemed like a better idea.”

… Fair enough, he can’t say anything to _that_. Thing is, Jon looks completely devastated at the prospect of going back without any of that cash and while Jaime has no idea of how it feels to be without means to put food on the table and roof over your head, he thinks he _can_ get the general feeling.

And — shit. It’s Ned’s son at the end of it, and he kind of does owe his father for having stuck with him during the investigation, never mind that he remembers how Jon looked in the pictures Ned brought to work just after they took him in, and he has a feeling they’d both have a lot of horror stories to share about Aerys should he breech the subject, which he’s absolutely _not_ going to do, and…

Fuck that.

“Listen, I imagine that the money I paid them _will_ go back to my father’s Cayman Islands account the moment we arrest them and go after everyone who used their services, if only because they know _I_ used that money to _gain proof_ , so it’s not dirty or anything. My father also has no idea I have access to that account and my brother gave it to me because he knows he most likely forgot it existed. Now, if you _do_ want that money I can make sure you do get it —”

He stops when Jon shakes his head. “So what, _I_ get it because I know you, or because you knew my father, whichever you like, and the other people who were downstairs with me and ended up with worse creepers don’t?”

Touché. Jaime is pretty sure they _wouldn’t_.

“It wouldn’t be fair,” Jon shakes his head. “And I already feel sick that I’ve done this in the first place. I mean, it’s a _lot_ , but I don’t know if I can —”

“Listen, how much do you even need to get your shit straight?” He cuts.

Jon looks at him with wide eyes — he obviously hadn’t expected the question — but then thinks about it. “Well, my share of the rent is one hundred and fifty quid per month, so if we throw in the bills and so on, let’s say I’d need some three thousand to have just _that_ covered without worrying. If I actually want to enroll in uni and get a damned piece of paper, tuitions are _at least_ nine thousand per year and there’s no way I actually could get a job that pays back _all that_ while studying, so — guess that if I wanted to pay off an undergraduate degree fully _and_ not worry about rent while I work some better part-time job, it’s some thirty-five thousand quid, or forty if we _really_ want to cover all possible unforeseen events. But never mind that, I can’t even make the three thousand for the rent, so —”

“Chill, that’s not _unreasonable_.”

“Yeah, for _you_ , maybe.”

Touché, Jaime figures, but — well. He _kind_ of owes the kid’s father, _and_ he remembers how shitty it feels when you’re that age and one hundred per cent sure no one’s going to help you out, _hasn’t he gone through that too_ even for different reasons, and honestly, not even touching the Cayman islands account, he barely even spends money on himself and not in large quantities and anyone with his surname _automatically_ gets a share of the family money the day they turn twenty-one, thank fuck that his grandfather was less of a dick than his own old man and left that on his will in a way that prevented any descendants from fucking with it. Long story short: he _does_ have way more than _that_ at his disposal.

Ah, well, fuck that.

“Listen, you don’t think getting the auction money’s fair? Not surprised, given who you grew up with. Luckily for _you_ , they sent _me_ here rather than Bronn, because _he_ wouldn’t have had seventy quid available at once, but never mind that — if you’re _really_ that pressed and you don’t want to drown in interest or get involved with the regular student loans, just — fuck’s sake, _I_ could lend you the damned money without the interest.”

Jon looked ready to object, but then his expression turns absolutely baffled as soon as he hears the proposal.

“Wait, you would _what_?”

“Never mind that I’d have never soldiered through the whole investigation back in the day if your father hadn’t stood his ground, but honestly, I _have_ that money and I don’t even need it, you obviously do and from the way you’re looking now I _know_ you’d pay it back. And I’m not my fucking father, surely I don’t need you to drown in interest as long as that money comes back to me within the next fifteen years. And like, I wouldn’t even have said no if you agreed to get the illustrious parent’s, but —”

“No,” Jon says, sounding choked, his eyes almost tearing up, “I couldn’t. But — really?”

“Snow, do you think I give everyone I meet thirty-five thousand quid the moment they ask? I’m not my father but I wasn’t even born yesterday,” he says dryly, and — shit, he still has a hand on Jon’s arm, doesn’t he? Still, he does look like he sorely needs it, so he’s just — going to keep it there for the moment. “Give it a week until this whole mess dies down, we got these assholes locked and I cleared stuff with the bank and everything because the one reason I was here was that I was the only one whose bank account _would_ clear out should they check. Then you can meet me at the police station and we can figure that shit out, and by the way, the moment you walk out of here they _will_ give you _some_ money — like, maybe one thousand quid as an anticipation of the rest. Which you would _not_ have gotten in full if at all, but they did that with everyone who actually followed _your_ route inside this organization and didn’t end up in a hospital because of it. _Take it_ and use it for the rent, all the others will get it _and_ it’s completely untraceable, so even if you didn’t take it it’d just end up frozen the moment we arrest them and if you need that for housing you might as well get it and be done with that.”

Jon seems like he wants to argue, but then for the first time in this entire mess he _almost_ smiles. “Have you just told me I should go for it when it’s _illegal_?”

Jaime shrugs. “Do I give you the idea that I stick to protocol? _Please_. If I stuck to protocol you’d be upstairs with way less handsome people,” he grins, and he doesn’t miss Jon’s cheeks flushing slightly as he breaks eye contact.

“Well, given your precedents, have you _ever_ stuck to protocol?”

“Point taken. So, what about my not so indecent proposal from earlier?”

“I — if you’re sure about it, that’d be… ideal,” Jon nods. “But just if —”

“Jon, fuck’s sake, I came up with the idea, didn’t I? Just pay off your rent with whatever they give you and then meet me at the precinct in a week. Willas Tyrell can figure out the legal stuff, and before you ask me why would I drag the prosecution lawyer into it, it’s because he’s taking on _our_ case in court and he most likely has seen the footage already, so it’s nothing he wouldn’t know already.”

“… Right,” Jon says. “Shit, they really did see it, didn’t they?”

“I’m afraid so. But before you get bothered about it — listen, I didn’t exactly have instructions to actually _buy_ anyone. I did it without checking in with them but when I did no one roasted me for it and apparently they were hoping that I would, knowing me.”

“They — they did _what_?”

“You probably wouldn’t go there if you decided to _sell off your virginity_ rather than maybe _see if your father’s old colleagues might want to help you out_ , but fact is, we all respected him and owed him something either way and some of them remember you from when you came into work with him just after he took you in, no one wanted to see you going upstairs with people we are about to arrest.”

“Oh. Right. I — I guess I was an idiot, wasn’t I?”

He does sound slightly relieved now, which is pretty much what Jaime was hoping for. Good. “Maybe, but not an unlucky one. So, one, two weeks from now at the precinct?”

“Sure. I’ll come when I’m sure the noise died down.”

“Good. Now I guess we just have to find a way to pass the time until they’re satisfied I actually cashed in on my purchase,” he snorts, as if he was planning to _cash in_.

And then he stands in order to get a glass of water, thankfully there’s some on the counter, but then Jon — _goes utterly red in the face_?

“What’s the matter?”

“About _that_ ,” he says, clearing his throat. “Fuck. This is going to sound horrible, so I’m not even trying to — I mean, actually, I — I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to. Cash in, I mean.”

Jaime _almost_ drops the water.

“ _What_?” He blurts, surprise dripping from his voice. He _wants_ to — actually _go through with it_?

“I mean, I get it if you don’t want to and you only stepped in because you wanted to help, and in case — just pretend I said nothing, but — shit. I don’t know how to put it.”

“Just say it straight.”

Jon takes a deep breath. “Okay, listen, actually _having_ the damned v-card to lose was what got me into this mess and honest, I — I’m _shit_ at what my social worker called social interactions.”

_Yeah, and whenever I ran into Ned he would say he was worried about you only being friends with three people one of which was your brother._ “That’d be the reason why no one’s popped any cherries around here?”

Jon groans. “ _Maybe_. I should hope it’s just that. Anyway, uh, guess what, I didn’t do in high school and here I am and honestly, it’s been long enough that it’s not like the whole spiel that you should lose your first time with your special one and shit means anything.”

Jaime could say a lot about it, but keeps his mouth shut.

He wishes _he_ had realized that, honestly.

“And — uh, you probably don’t know that, but when I was a kid and _you_ were the reason Aerys got locked up and you did it even when you knew it’d have been hard to manage it, and from what my father used to say about you uh, fuck, this is _really_ embarrassing —”

“ _What_ did Ned use to say about me?”

Jon isn’t quite looking at him anymore. “That you were an ass but your moral compass was fairly straight even if bent enough to actually be good at your job and that you had a great deal of guts to go through with what you did.”

_Seriously_? Sure as hell Ned never told him that _directly_ , but — fuck. Well. That was nice to hear. Okay, he knew Ned thought he was good at his job, but — never mind.

“… Nice to hear it,” he says. “But that’s not the whole point, is it?”

“No. The whole point is that _maybe_ when I was fourteen I _sortof_ thought you were hot which was why the one time we talked in the office back then I was feeling like I wanted to die inside.”

… _Okay then_.

“Nice to see I still got it,” he jokes, trying to break the tension. “And _then_?”

“Well, _all things considered_ , at _this_ specific point, if I had to lose the damned v-card I’d rather do it with someone I like and you’re here and you just — you _know_ , so what I mean is, if _you_ want to, I _want_ to, and not because it’s a repayment or anything, that’d be insulting and I wouldn’t do it. Like, I’m entirely willing unless you find it too creepy or whatever and I _knew_ there was no way this would come out sounding right but — right. That was it. So. If you want to, we don’t have to, er, _pretend_. Or whatever.”

Well, _sure as hell_ that wasn’t what Jaime had been expecting to hear.

Honestly, he hadn’t even begun to barely consider the fact that _anything_ would happen in the first place, but — _well_ , there’s not really that much to dwell on. Jon has just fucking propositioned _him_ , which he didn’t have to do, but admittedly he does look like he means it and Jaime made clear in advance that it was _work_ and he didn’t really even think about it once. Fine, he _did_ entertain those couple of thoughts about Jon having turned out fairly damned attractive, but sure as fuck he hadn’t even taken into consideration to act on it and for that matter he never was the kind of person who went for one night stands (unless he _really_ needed to get laid) nor acted based on _that_ — he likes to know who he’s having sex with, most times. So — he hadn’t even entertained the thought.

Still, now Jon is looking up at him and he looks fairly sure of it, and again, _why_ would he propose it if he didn’t want it? Well, he’s of age and _hopefully_ knowing what the fuck he’s doing, so — he’ll just take it at face value.

“You know,” Jaime says, “it’s not like you _have_ to lose the v-card before you turn twenty or whatever. Like, there aren’t expiration dates on it.”

“I know,” Jon keeps on. “But — that’s not the point.”

Jaime would like to ask, then he glances down at Jon’s waist, and —

Wait a moment — oh, _well_ , fuck him, he’s _definitely_ bothered and those pants aren’t hiding the… not _sizable_ but certainly _present_ erection Jon’s sporting, and Jaime is _absolutely_ sure that on stage he was everything but hot and bothered. Which means that it’s happened _now_ , and —

Jesus H. Christ.

“ _That_ is the point?” He asks.

“I told you,” Jon asks, “seems — shit, seems like I haven’t gotten over — _fuck_ ,” he says, immediately realizing what he’s implied.

“Over _what_? Getting hard-ons thinking about my astonishingly good looks?”

“Fuck, my father was right, you _can_ be a prick, but — _maybe_ that’s what I meant.”

Jaime nods and considers it — ball’s in his court, at this point.

So: Jon _definitely_ wants a go at this. Fine. He’ll respect it — he’s old enough to know what the fuck he’s doing, and it’s obvious he’s not doing this just to thank him, unless he’s a very good actor, and it’s definitely not the case.

Jaime — _well_ , Jaime isn’t finding him too hard on the eyes, either, actually he’s been thinking that for the entire evening, so no point in beating around the bush. Admittedly, while he’s never batted for both teams _that_ much, he’s into women generally, he’s had a few one-night stands with Oberyn Martell ages ago when he was bent on getting over his fucking sister and while he wasn’t driving the show because he had no idea of what he should have done in the first place, he remembers enough of what Oberyn did and what he _liked_ him to do to… well, not give a shabby performance, he figures. It’s been years, but it was really good sex and he remembers it very fondly, so — he can probably manage it.

Fuck, he _is_ considering it, isn’t he? Ned Stark most likely wouldn’t appreciate, but — never mind. The last person he needs to think about here is _Ned Stark_.

… Well, Jaime never was the person who lied to himself.

“Fine,” he says, figuring that there’s no point in denying that he’s interested and the Jon is _obviously_ interested. “ _Fine_ , just as long as you can say that you’ve _literally_ been with the guy of your dreams.”

“What — wait, you just —” Jon starts, and then snorts, openly, unable to _not_ laugh. “Lannister, you _really_ have a shitty sense of humor, you know that?”

“Too bad that _you_ are the one laughing, not me. Just, I sure as hell hope you aren’t expecting the performance of your life because the last time I was with a guy was… a _long_ fucking time ago.” _And I wasn’t on top_ , but Jon doesn’t need to know _that_. He’s fairly sure it’s not bloody rocket science.

“Man, I’ve _never_ been with anyone period, so you can’t do worse than me,” Jon replies, sounding slightly relieved.

Okay then.

They’re doing this, or so it seems.

Fuck.

He shakes his head and then notices that Jon still has the damned collar on.

“Wait, I should probably —” He says, reaching to take it off, but then Jon —

Shakes his head?

“Uh. What — what if I don’t mind it?”

_What_. Jaime stops, letting his hand drop. “You want to keep that?”

“… It’s… not… necessarily bad?” Jon says, sheepishly, and Jaime decides that he’s better off not pressing it. Jon’s _obviously_ not saying the whole truth but if he likes it a bit kinky, he’s not going to be the one who says no, even if then _maybe_ —

“Okay, fine, but — listen, two things. If we’re going at it like _that_ and it’s the first time you do this, just — stop me if you want to, all right? Just fucking do it and I don’t want to hear any bullshit about having to stand through it.”

“All right, I will.”

He _does_ sound like he’s convinced of it.

Jaime is just going to have to hope he’s not the kind of guy who soldiers through stuff he hates _just because_ , because his father was exactly like that and that’s — not how he likes to approach things.

Okay. Right. They’re doing this. And he can’t exactly whip out his phone, call Oberyn and ask him tips about _this_ whole fucking business, so he’s going to have to improvise, and —

Fuck it.

He reaches out, grabs at the back of Jon’s neck, fingers hooking around the collar, and _tugs_.

He has a feeling that if they talked about it for ten more seconds it’d have turned out the _bad_ kind of awkward and maybe he should just _get things started_ and —

Fuck _him_ , Jon kisses him back the moment their mouths touch, his hands reaching up for Jaime’s shoulders and dragging him forward so that he ends up fully on top of him, and fine, he obviously doesn’t have much experience but he certainly seems enthusiastic from the way his tongue moves against Jaime’s and how he’s grinding up against him.

Jaime has a feeling that if he doesn’t get out his suit _now_ he’s going to have a hard time explaining the dry cleaner why he can’t wash it at home. Still —

Jon moans inside his mouth the moment Jaime’s crotch meets his, his hips canting upwards.

Fuck’s sake.

“Hell,” Jaime groans, moving back, “am I wrong or you have a lot to catch up with?”

“Maybe I do,” Jon admits, not _too_ reluctantly, but —

Okay.

“Well, if I’m doing this I’m doing this fucking properly. Lay back down, I need to — get some things,” he says, and — Jon _immediately_ does, head hitting the pillow, that dark long hair spreading all over it, and doesn’t protest once regardless of the dent in his leathers, and he’s _not_ attempting to get them open.

Well then.

Jaime hops off the bed, kicks off his shoes and immediately gets rid of his trousers and underwear — good thing he _can_ wash the latter at home, thank you very fucking much. He takes off his jacket and tie, only leaving the shirt for the moment and slipping the first two buttons open, then he heads for the blasted table.

He’s so _not_ even going to look at the fucking riding crop nor anything else that could cause permanent damage or _damage_ in the first place — he’s not doing that for the first time with someone who’s never had sex _period_. But there’s lube in abundance, and a plug that _might_ come in handy, and maybe —

He’s going to stick with the damned lube and condoms for the moment. He grabs the only non-flavored one they have and decides it’s good enough for now. He can still… go back later, he supposes. He turns back towards the back, fully aware that he’s almost completely naked and his shirt certainly doesn’t cover the state of his dick — half-hard, and starting to be hard to ignore at this point, and he meets Jon’s eyes, or better, he notices that Jon’s staring at his waist and _not_ like someone who’s regretting their life choices.

_Well then_.

“Enjoying the show?” He asks, walking back to the bed.

“Maybe,” Jon replies, obviously trying to not look back down at his dick again, and failing all around.

“Maybe you want a closer look?” He grins.

“Maybe I do.”

Huh. He sounds _sure_ of that.

He moves lube and condoms to the nightstand, then carefully kneels on the bed, legs on the side of Jon’s thighs, his hand moving back to the collar, his fingers running all over it. “I was thinking of starting things off way easier, but if that’s _not_ up your alley…”

“I _know_ how this works, thank you very fucking much,” Jon says, but it sounds strangled.

Shit.

_Well then_.

“You’re thinking about sucking me off, aren’t you?”

Jon’s cheeks immediately go a _way_ darker shade of scarlet.

“Guess that was a yes. Well then, I guess a guy never says no to _that_ ,” he says, moving up closer, sitting up so that his dick’s right over Jon’s mouth, hoping he’s not pushing it but hey, _he_ wasn’t the one staring at his own cock like he _really_ wanted a taste, was he?

He honestly doesn’t know what the _fuck_ he’s doing here nor what he is expecting, but not for Jon to _open his mouth_ at once and taking the head of his dick in his mouth, and not _too_ slowly for that matter.

“And you _can_ go slow,” Jaime says before he has the horrible idea to choke on it because he’s never done it before, and he takes care to not actually downright cant his hips downwards.

Jon doesn’t move back so he can reply.

Jon just looks up at him and runs his tongue along what of his dick is in his mouth, tentatively first, but then he opens his mouth slightly wider and takes him in deeper, then a bit more, than a bit more, and at this point his dick has gone _way_ past half-hard, which is why most likely Jon stops halfway, and it’s obvious he’s never done this before but he’s certainly making up for it in effort, given how the moment he realizes at which pace he wants to take this he starts sucking, slow, and okay, Jaime’s definitely going to have to ask if he’s watched any porn before because he certainly seems to know what he’s doing —

( _or maybe he’s thought about it? who knows_ )

— and then he stops thinking about porn movies because Jon’s literally _moaned_ around his dick before sucking harder and fuck, if it goes on like this Jaime’s going to _most likely_ come in his mouth before… not long, especially given that he hasn’t gotten laid in months and this entire situation is turning him on way more than it’d have any right to.

Except that it’d be kind of sad if _Jon_ is the one who has to lose the v-card and the first thing that happens is that Jaime comes inside his mouth, _damn it_ , and maybe it’s that — he’s _not_ going to think of how he lost _his_ own fucking v-card, but some part of him that quite never got rid of the idea that people’s first time should ideally be _nice_ and not a fucking business transaction or worse, be about _other people_ first and them last, still thinks it should be less… squalid than this, honestly, so he breathes in, reaches down, moves a hand behind Jon’s head, moving a few strands of hair sticking to his forehead, tugging at his hair so he slows down.

“Hey,” he said, “I’m _this_ close and I don’t know if it’s the way it should go.”

He makes to pull back, and for a moment Jon looks up at him _weird_ , but then he lets his hair fall back, his jaw lowering so Jaime can slip his dick out of his mouth and _fuck_ , it leaves a strand of white all over Jon’s lips and chin and it shouldn’t look as hot as it does, but — yeah. Fuck. He needs to do this properly.

He reaches down, wiping pre-come out, and Jon — closes his eyes and leans into it? Shit, his cheek’s pressing against Jaime’s hand, his hands not moving against the pillow.

_Huh_. He reaches out, grabs Jon’s wrists, presses them gently against the bed —

And Jon about lets out a moan that _surely_ they heard in the next room, his entire frame shuddering.

“Let me guess,” Jaime snorts, “you like _that_?” He presses down harder on Jon’s wrists.

“What — what if I do?”

He doesn’t sound too smug now, just — breathy. He has his eyes closed, his cheeks slightly flushed under that neatly trimmed beard. Jaime leans down to kiss him but now he does it slower, taking his time, his hips lowering themselves downwards without a hurry, his naked crotch rubbing against Jon’s leather, and Jon kisses him back letting him drive the show but with _enthusiasm_ , moaning a little into his mouth, his feet touching Jaime’s ankles, and — _right_.

Jaime thinks he has this figured out slightly better now.

He leans back, not abruptly, his mouth moving to Jon’s ear.

“Keep that hands right where I’m leaving them, hm?”

Jon nods as he leans back and he makes quick work of the fucking leather trousers — he needs them out of the way. He’s _not_ surprised to see that Jon wasn’t wearing a thing under them, nor that he’s rock hard; he exhales in relief the moment Jaime frees his erection from that trap it was caught in, and the moment Jaime reaches down and gives him a couple of strokes he groans even _more_ relieved than before. For a moment he’s tempted to see what might happened if he put a finger under that collar making it tighter, but — no, he should keep this easy at least in the beginning and honest, he liked that when other people did it to _him_ , but he doesn’t know if he has the guts to do it himself, so — maybe later or maybe _never_ , but he’s sure he can come up with potentially less dangerous things.

_Actually_ —

“Wait there for me a moment,” he says, then heads over for the table where he ignores the fucking eggs and four different types of vibrators available — _right_. He grabs a packet of dental dams, opens one packet if anything because while he’s sure the both of them are clean he’s going to do this properly, damn it, then moves back on the bed after grabbing one packet of lube and leaving it where he can find it..

“Spread your legs,” he says, and Jon does at once, and Jaime should look into why he’s not protesting or anything but _later._

For now, he opens the pack of lube, coats the top of his fingers, moves them to the rim of Jon’s _indeed_ very tight asshole and pushes in a bit, purposefully _not_ doing anything when Jon’s hips jerk upwards and his dick twitches.

All in due time.

He opens him up a bit, not _too_ much but enough, then asks him to turn over. Jon does at once, showing him his naked, smooth back, and then Jaime, places the dam over Jon’s ass carefully, and then he grins and leans down.

The noise Jon makes the moment Jaime uses his mouth and licks along the rim of his entrance is _definitely_ the kind you hear on the outside. For a moment Jaime has to reach down and relieve his own dick with a few strokes just to fucking calm down, and then he bends down to his task again — he licks his way inside as much as he can reach, feeing Jon’s thighs shake on the bed, but noticing that he _doesn’t_ try to search for friction against the mattress.

Hm.

“By the way,” he says, leaning upwards, “we have six hours. Don’t wait on my account.” Then before Jon can say anything he leans down again, spreading Jon’s ass slightly wider, his tongue plunging inside again, and he can feel that he’s coiled like a taut string and that he’s _this_ close, and honestly, _honestly_ , why not see if he _can_ make him come just like this?

He moves his hands up to Jon’s hips, grabbing tighter, his tongue pressing harder downwards, again, and _again_ , and then he can feel Jon going still for a moment before he moans _loud_ and —

Jaime immediately moves back, grabs him by the shoulders and hauls him up so his back is against Jaime’s chest and reaches down to stroke his dick as Jon comes against his hand, even if the moment he drags him upwards he can already see the silky sheets behind them stained — _good_ , honestly, and he moves his other hand around Jon’s waist, keeping him up as he empties himself all over against his fingers. It’s probably _not_ even worth to tell himself to _stop_ thinking it’s hot as hell because at this point he should just embrace that this entire situation is turning him on like crazy, not that _Jon_ isn’t turned on like crazy.

For a moment, neither of them says a thing. Then —

“You haven’t —” Jon says, his voice croaking.

“That’s cute you’re worrying,” Jaime grins, “but don’t worry, I think I will soon enough. And now that you’re not tense anymore it’s going to be way better, I think.”

“That — that was _good_ ,” Jon says, not quite looking at him.

“Hey, I’m a damn good lay,” Jaime replies before moving back and helping Jon down again, just on his back again. He coats his fingers in lube again, then slides them inside Jon again — he’s looser now, obviously, and he already worked him open before, so two slide in without a problem. He doesn’t expect Jon to _whine_ at that, though.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Jon says.

“Yeah, that didn’t sound like nothing. What, you want another?”

Jon opens his eyes, looking up at him, and shit, they’re _all pupil_ , and his lips are red and swollen and his face is still dirty with come.

_Great_ , now he’s even more turned on.

“Please,” he asks, _entirely serious_ , and —

Jaime doesn’t even try to drag this. “If you ask so nicely,” he grins, and after coating the third finger he slips it in as well, and _then_ Jon moans a _yes_ that goes straight to his nether regions.

He slips them in _further_. Hell, if he looks deep enough, he will have to —

The moment his fingers hit Jon’s prostate, that _yes_ isn’t even a moan anymore, it’s blatant shouting.

He grins, and does it again. And again. And _again_.

By the time Jon’s face is positively flushing, sweat pooling over his forehead, his dick hard all over again (and untouched, but he will remedy that soon enough), Jaime _really_ can’t hold on for much longer. He slips on a condom, lubes himself up just for extra precaution, lines himself up with Jon’s ass and the moment Jon gives him a nod he just slides in.

He’s _tight_ , fine, but it’s also slick and smooth, and of course it is since he just spent he doesn’t know how long fingering him and he doesn’t exactly have _slender_ fingers, and _shit_ , it’s his first time on _this_ side of the barricade but he figures he’s not doing too badly, especially given that a moment later Jon’s legs tentatively move up and wrap around his back, pulling him closer — now his dick is trapped in between the two of them and Jaime can feel exactly how hard he is against his own skin, but that’s fine. He’s not going to have to bear it for much longer, he thinks.

He moves them further down the bed so Jon’s back is against the wall and he can put a hand at the back of Jon’s head again, tugging at his hair, which Jon did seem to like well enough before and given that _again_ , he presses up against his hand, he was right.

“Everything fine?” He checks in, just in case.

“Fuck, _yes_ ,” Jon says, sounding almost awed, as if he hadn’t imagined it being _this good_.

Good thing that Jaime’s a lot of things but a bad lay was never one of them, he likes to think, and so he grins and _thrusts_.

Jon presses back up against him, his hands grabbing at Jaime’s shoulders now, moaning every time Jaime angles his own dick just right and finds the place his fingers had been before, once, twice, thrice, and then he slows down because he wants it to _last_ some, damn it, even if he’s _this_ close, and he manages to keep the rhythm for a while but then Jon lets out one of those small, _pleased_ whines and comes all over his stomach hard and fast and grasping at Jaime’s back like a drowning man, and it’s _too damn much_ and he leans back slightly, giving a last, deep thrust before he comes in a rush, buried deep inside Jon, and for a moment he feels like the both of them are burning so hot they might get scalded but then he turns Jon’s head upwards, angles it right and slams their mouths together, eating up another couple moans that leave Jon’s lips a moment later, and _fuck_ but never mind the dry spell, he hasn’t come so hard in a _damn_ long time including the last two or three one night stands-out-of-necessity, and he doesn’t move until they’re both done and Jon’s grip on his hands has gone slightly slacker and his legs aren’t tightly wrapped around his back anymore. He pulls out, gets rid of the condom and aims it towards the general direction of the trash, then turns over and Jon’s hand immediately find his hip as he leans back down and Jon moves his head to his shoulder.

_Okay then._

“You all right?” He asks, moving a hand up to Jon’s hair again, carding through it — it’s sticky with sweat now but it’s still soft and thick, and the moment he does Jon positively moans _again_ a little.

“Better than,” he replies, quietly but audible. “Man, you’re good.”

Well, he’ll take the compliment. “I might be one of a kind,” Jaime grins. “So, I guess that as far as getting v-cards punched in, that was a winner?”

“Hm,” Jon agrees, nodding, “but didn’t you say we had six hours?”

Jaime can’t help moving his hand down to the collar, slipping that finger under the leather slowly but without pulling. Jon’s throat is soft and warm under it, and when he speaks he can feel it vibrate against his hand, and from the way he almost seems to lean into it —

Maybe he should _ask_ about maybe slipping that clasp inside the next notch.

“Guess it’s five now. But we do, technically. Why?”

“Uh.” Jon is blushing deep red now, _but_ — “Before. I mean. That was — real nice of you to — stop things, but I _did_ want you to come in my mouth.”

_Fuck’s sake_ , Jaime’s refractory period isn’t what it used to be, lately, but the moment Jon says it he _can_ feel blood rushing to his groin.

“You — you _did_?”

“I thought it was obvious?” Jon says sheepishly, looking down again, and —

“I guess,” Jaime says, “that when you ask _this_ nicely, why not. But it’s going to take a while, I think.”

“Oh,” Jon says, moving back slowly on his knees, “I don’t think I mind.”

And then he slips off the bed and on his knees on the side of it and _fuck_ , seriously, he’s _really_ —

Jaime swallows, moving his own feet to the side of the bed, sitting up on the mattress, his dick hanging in between his legs — he’s _not_ hard now, that’s for sure.

“Wait,” he says, grabbing a pillow, “that carpet looks like no fun at all.”

Jon says nothing, takes the pillow, kneels on it, then looks up at him as if he’s extremely serious about it and then takes him in his mouth, _again_ , and not just a bit, but half his dick at once and given that he’s not hard _now_ maybe it’s easier.

He has no fucking clue, except that then Jon starts using his tongue on him, licking all over the tip, taking him in deeper, and the moment Jaime’s hands tentatively find the back of his head again (the right) and the collar (he slips _two_ fingers inside it, carefully, without pressing) he lets out a _relieved_ breath as if he was waiting just for that and then takes him in _deeper_ , sucking dutifully until he’s hard again, piece by piece, and damn but he seems to be into it _even more_ than Jaime is and he is _very much_ into it.

Well, _fuck_ , Jaime decides as he fucks into Jon’s mouth slow and steady, holding his head up and tugging at his hair as Jon sucks him off as if he’s going to give him the best head he’s ever got or die trying, _maybe_ this entire mess really did end up in the best possible way for the both of them.

Later, he’s going to make sure Jon’s not overdoing it, he’s going to get them both something to eat, he’s going to make sure no one suspects anything and he’ll _definitely_ give Jon a ride back home and make sure he _does_ come to the precinct next week, even if he’s sure he’s not going to have any other ill-advised ideas of _this_ kind.

For now —

If Jon is _really_ that bent on making sure he walks out of this room having lost _every_ possible kind of v-card and not just one, well… he’s certainly not going to be the one saying no.

They _do_ have until dawn, after all.

 

 

End.


End file.
